Moribund
by Jennifer Jolie
Summary: My attempt to define Morpheus. Probably stopping it here.
1. Part one

Moribund  
  
I might decide to continue this if I get some feedback. anyway, this is my attempt to explain Morpheus in, oh, four hundred odd words. I need a better title.  
  
My feeling is that he was a barber and that he used to have nightmares about cutting people's throats. ~ Laurence Fishburne  
  
~*~  
  
Old nightmares always come back to haunt you.  
  
Old lives are even worse.  
  
Ever had that feeling when you weren't sure if you were awake or still dreaming? The line blurs when you begin dreaming of your own life.  
  
Smudged, faded reds and blues and whites swirled dizzyingly above the door of the barbershop, it's just green now, and white. Hair is strewn over the floor, a mishmash of black and white tiles at random, not truly chequered. The hair is mostly yours. With an average of two customers a week in this part of town, you've got no one else to practise on.  
  
Scissors in your hand. Shiny. Eye-catching. You run your finger along the blades. It's just a dream. It doesn't hurt. Oh, but it's sparkly. Everything else on your tray is dusty.  
  
The tiny bell above the door clanks like stubborn, rusty machinery. The door opening is yet louder. The first customer in days enters, not making eye contact with you. She - yes, she - turns and closes the door firmly, so the faulty lock actually clicks shut, and yet gently, not adding to the broken glass crunching underfoot. She's wearing something vaguely grey and blending with the floor, and this doesn't matter much in your dream. Her hair though, is a sharp raven black, hanging down her back and across her eyes. You can see her face.  
  
She's white.  
  
Dropping your gaze you motion for her to sit down. She does, with the grace of a dancer. The chair doesn't even squeak. Your heart goes out to this shadow.  
  
The whole shop is feeling like a hushed noir, black and white, completely silent. In the chair, the woman - no, just a girl - leans back slowly, hands on the armrests. Her skin is as pale as moonlight, the moonlight streaming through your cracked glass window, the only beauty you can afford.  
  
Her eyes are still closed. Peace.  
  
The scissors wink at you. You know she wants her hair cut - there's not much else a cheap barber like you can do - yet there's something else about her that's far more appealing.  
  
Slowly you trail the edge of your scissors down across her flawless ivory neck.  
  
The effect is instant and satisfactory. Her entire body jerks in the chair, and her knuckles pale as she clenches the armrests of the chair. She can't be more than sixteen or so. An interesting moment to come to that conclusion. Her eyes snap open. It's startling, twin crystal blue orbs widened in astonishment in this monochromic miasma.  
  
Shock. Then the pain seeps in.  
  
You want to hear her voice. She refuses to speak. Now you have to hear her scream.  
  
Is it a dream for her too?  
  
~*~ 


	2. Part two

My second attempt to define Morpheus, which came out considerably darker. Quotations from _O Captain! My Captain!_, written by Walt Whitman.

We have not yet come to any conclusions. He is tall and dark and handsome in his newfound world where racial prejudice does not exist. He will never again beg in the streets. For the first time in his life he is doing things right, he is useful. He is happy. 

He is fallible. Beneath the burnished bronze exterior and solid muscle he is a man. Ranking officer. Best flier the league has ever seen. Quickest promotion in a hundred years of history.

I am but a man, he says.

And sometimes he chooses to be noble and sometimes his subconscious creeps in and alters the situation to his own advantage. He is a Jekyll and Hyde and a jack-in-the-box. 

And along there comes a time, a trial, a test. A new situation, never encountered, where he has to think on his feet. His sheer strength and will has saved his crew from the Matrix. His captain has been captured. A cliffhanger in code, she is led away. He grasps her hand as if to pull her back. Her eyes remain closed. Her entire body flickers.

As if a jolt of electricity clawed at her spine. The crew shrieks, _bring her back, you can¡¯t let them take her, they¡¯re torturing her, you have to do something_, wishes and commands and commands. Going after her will result in all of then being picked off one by one, for all the enthusiasm they show now. Useless deaths, just more raw meat lining the streets.

There is only code to prove that she has something, knows something the machines want. Her heartbeat goes wild, striping scrolling screens. A slow delicious line of blood licks at her damp face. Her entire body spasms now, and he still cannot decide. He is suddenly filled with a fear of those dentists¡¯ chairs those barbers¡¯ chair that protrude into your head and possess you and eat your soul and you are only pain-

Underneath the whites of his eyes and the trembling fingertips he cannot bear to leave his captain. Standard operating procedure one-one dictates that rescue mission should never¨C

Medic frantically sponges at her forehead, as if that will ease her suffering. Green Coppertop wails, and Motherly Old Crewmember tries to comfort her. Rebel One and Rebel Two have began to play with their deck of cards, which only comes in black. There had always been fierce debates on whether diamonds were red or black. 

She is staring to quiet down. They will have what they want of her soon enough. 

His thoughts are his own as he motions for the chop. The executioner¡¯s blade swishes, a pair of scissors in the dark barbershop days. What must it be like, to have your life wrenched out of your head? One quick decisive moment of being sucked out inexorably elsewhere? His hands shake. It is not an easy death for either of them.

And as he stands there he recites his eulogy, to life, to death, to the first friend he ever had in life, to his mentor, to his teacher, to her. ¡°It is some dream¡­ that on the deck, you¡¯ve fallen cold and dead.¡±

They roll her up, and her body is short, reverent work.

They need a fresh start. The bad blood has been expectorated, and new growth must germinate. The evils of the time must end. He is not satisfied with his actions.

They are short of a new crewmember.

Of course he thinks of Niobe, but she is already of high rank of _The Logos_. It would not do to borrow her and never return her. For he knew he could not. 

His own crew is weary, forlorn and dejected. Still the fearful trip is done. The ship is anchored safe and its voyage over. They are all still alive. Yet he ponders. What is the game of chess without a king?

The queen is the most powerful player on the board. She can move either vertically, horizontally or diagonally, and in the number of squares of her choice.

He directs his next question at the nearest random crewmember. ¡°That new one we were looking at the other day. Hacker. Trying to crack the IRS-d? What was his name?¡±

Crewmember wants to smile at him, but in the turn of the tides she is not sure if she knows him altogether well enough to call him a stranger. ¡°Trinity. Smart girl.¡±

¡°Notify Zion of¡­ the loss. You might as well go to look out for this Trinity. She has potential.¡± He nods to Crewmember. ¡°Thank you, Ghost.¡± Yessir.

Crewmember Ghost exits along with the rest of them. For they are merely players on this stage. He is left alone, alone as he has ever been, with a ship, a crew and a corpse. And he shatters his silent torment, screaming aloud, vowing to put things right the next time. The next time.

This man is to be captain. You may now wish to judge if this man is a good captain.


End file.
